


Lifelines

by FrancescaMonterone



Series: Singularities Verse [6]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Series, Slow Build, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:12:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancescaMonterone/pseuds/FrancescaMonterone
Summary: Malcolm put down his glass and reached his hands across the table, grasping Jon's. "This is going to be a disaster," he predicted."I can't wait."





	Lifelines

 

 _All good things..._ Malcolm had told Trip in what neither of them had known would be their last real conversation before the inevitable end. And dear Lord, how he wished he hadn't been right...! But you cannot stop time; not even Daniels and his fellow time-traveling heroes and villains had managed that yet.

And so they sat in their seats of honor, too far elevated above the proceedings below to tell a Tellarite from and Andorian. They listened to their captain speak of exploration, and wonder, and scientific advances. Of new friends and alliances, of sacrifice and loss, and hope. Perhaps they were the only ones in an audience that numbered thousands, who noticed the slight tremor of nervousness in his voice.

Malcolm hid a smile. For all his brash courage and vast experience, their captain could still be surprisingly insecure in social situations such as these. That, too, would pass with time, he presumed. Especially if they made him an admiral, and eventually they would. It seemed inevitable.

Maybe not just yet, though. Malcolm had no intention of spending the rest of his career earthbound, but he wasn't keen on leaving Captain Archer, either.

So he told Travis that it was reasonable to wait and see, and cast his lot with their captain's, and that he would do the same. The rest was history.

Well. Not quite.

Because -

\- "No, you won't."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"

If Jonathan Archer had had longer hair at the time, he would probably have run a hand through it. As it was, he simply looked exceedingly frustrated. "You will not join me on this mission. It's a science vessel, it would be a criminal waste of talent for an officer of your caliber, and you would be bored as hell. The weapon systems are a joke. I'm going to be up to my ears in engineers and physicists, trying to make warp 8."

It made sense, in a way, even though commanding a scientific vessel would be completely different than commanding _Enterprise_. But _Enterprise_ , initially, had set out on a mission of exploration, too. So maybe it wasn't that far off. And the development and improvement of the warp engine had been near and dear to his heart since the beginning of his career.

And yet...

"I'm sure I'll manage, sir," Malcolm said drily. "Actually, I wouldn't mind being a little bored for a while. Things have been rather... intense, these past few years."

That got him a laugh. "Understatement of the year."

"So..."

" _No_ , Malcolm."

The use of his first name startled him. Sure, this was an informal setting, and it wasn't the first time, but it would take a while to get used to, if it were to become a habit. (And Malcolm very badly wanted it to become a habit.)

"I don't..."

Sigh. A deep one. "Look," Archer said - without looking at him - "we've never broached the subject, but I believe we both know where we stand. And not even you are enough of a masochist to want to continue like this. I may not be able to give you your heart's desire, but I refuse to be responsible for making you more miserable than necessary."

Malcolm was stunned into sudden, agape silence by that statement. Archer had never, not with a single word, acknowledged that he was in any way aware of Malcolm's dilemma. There had been hints, now and again, because neither of them was blind, but the words had never been uttered. They were too careful for that.

"Does this come as a surprise to you?" The question was soft, careful. Trying not to hurt. Sometimes, Malcolm hated him for being so considerate.

"A bit," he admitted. "You never said anything."

"What could I have said?"

Malcolm shrugged. "I don't know. 'Thanks, but no thanks'?"

"Malcolm..." Another sigh. "I do care about you. And I feel incredibly flattered, and also like a complete asshole, because I am rejecting something that anyone should count themselves incredibly lucky to receive. But I can't. I'm just not wired that way, and it just wouldn't work."

As let-downs went, it was a fairly nice one, and Malcolm couldn't have said that he was surprised. Not by the fact that his feeling weren't returned, he was not an idiot. It still felt like a well-aimed hit to his solar plexus.

"Damn you," he said, but without malice or real anger. There was nothing to be angry at. Nobody chose their sexual orientation, after all. Maybe the name for it, or whether or not to give it a name, but not the thing itself. "I think it would have been easier if you had thrown a fit or read me a page from the Starfleet rulebook."

"I could, if it would help...?" There was a hint of amusement in his voice and Malcolm looked up to see a small, tentative smile.

He shook his head. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather we parted amicably."

The smile broadened, taking his breath away. _Why did it have to be you?_

"Friends?"

Malcolm took the offered hand. No matter how he hated himself for it - and right now he hated himself quite a bit - he knew that he would never hesitate when this particular choice was offered. A world without Jonathan Archer in it was simply to bleak to even contemplate.

 

* * *

 

Of course, it didn't end there. Because deep down, the universe hated Malcolm Reed.

As if it hadn't been enough to strike him with aquaphobia, a long and creative list of allergies, and an unrequited crush the size of Jupiter, it also seemed determined to enticingly dangle the possibility of happily ever after in front of his nose every so often before rapidly pulling it away.

T'Pol was the first to congratulate him on his promotion to first officer, expressing satisfaction in her usual guarded and unsentimental manner. The second... well, take a guess.

Right.

"Congratulations, Malcolm. You earned it." Shoulder slap, one armed hug. Just two guys being friendly with each other. Something inside him screamed at the injustice of it all.

"I thought you were supposed to be on your way, sir."

"Not quite. My CMO jumped ship at the last possible moment and they're trying to find a replacement for her." Archer shrugged. "It could take another day or two."

"I see."

"Drinks? Since we're both of duty?"

Was he the only one who could see the twenty-seven ways in which this could go catastrophically wrong?

"Sure."

They found a cozy bar that in addition to draft beer and a myriad of cocktails served a decent selection of comfort food. Malcolm tried to focus on his burger, rather than on the way the navy blue polo shirt hugged his companion's upper body, but sadly, the burger wasn't that spectacular.

_Why am I doing this to myself...?_

Archer was prattling on happily, obliviously, and most of it was praise of Malcolm's abilities, at least until Malcolm interrupted him. "You're embarrassing me, sir."

"Drop the _sir_. We're off duty, I am no longer your commanding officer, and I believe you do know my first name."

"Jonathan." It felt strange on his tongue.

"Most people shorten it to Jon."

"Jon." Malcolm tried. It still didn't seem to fit, but he was helpless against the grin aimed at him across the table.

"Better."

_Not really._

"You know, this is a really bad idea," he ventured.

"What?"

" _This_. You want to be my friend. While I would like nothing better than to push you up against the nearest wall and snog you senseless. That's a conflict of interest."

Pause. Jon studied his face, but he didn't seem upset.

"I do love your sense of humor," he said eventually.

Malcolm wanted to hit somebody. Or go drown himself. It didn't really matter, at this point.

 

* * *

 

Their meetings, over the course of the next few years, always went something like this: they ran into each other, sometimes by accident, more often by design. Jon was friendly and jovial and asked him for dinner or drinks, or to walk with him, and struck up a conversation over the course of which he asked about a million question about Malcolm's current mission, and T'Pol and the crew. He never seemed upset when many of them were left unanswered.

In turn, he told Malcolm about life among engineers, their current project, test flight fails and successes; while Malcolm listened, and looked at him, all with an aching heart.

Maybe Jon was unconsciously looking to fill the void Trip's death had left in his life; or maybe he had always wanted to befriend Malcolm but refrained from any attempts while they were bound by a command hierarchy. In any case, both his interest and his affection seemed genuine.

Malcolm loved him hopelessly in return.

It was a somewhat unbalanced relationship.

"I miss _Enterprise_ ," Malcolm said in a sudden burst of honesty. It was the anniversary of Trip's death, and they had both decided to visit the memorial at the same time. "And I miss him."

Jon nodded. "He was your best friend."

"And yours."

A warm, slightly callused hand grasped his. Fingers curling gently around his own. Malcolm closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

"Do you ever get lonely, on _Endeavor_? I have the greatest respect for T'Pol, but... well, offering emotional support isn't really her thing."

Malcolm huffed.  "T'Pol and I have a wonderful arrangement - we don't talk about our feelings. I don't mention Trip, she doesn't mention Trip, and your name only comes up in relation to the latest news in warp engine development. It's really a match made in heaven."

"Sounds like it." Jon chuckled. He still hadn't let go of Malcolm's hand.

Malcolm resigned himself to a universe full of _what ifs_.

 

* * *

 

Then, of course, there was the time when Malcolm nearly got killed (again). The circumstances of the incident were unimportant in hindsight, particularly given the fact that it was neither the first, nor the last time somebody used a lethal weapon on him. Death by bat'leth would have been honorable, Malcolm supposed, if slightly uncreative.

He woke up at Starfleet Medical, groggy and somewhat disoriented, and in a really, really bad mood that mellowed into slight grumpiness when Jon insisted on feeding him ice cubes. After shouting at him for a bit, that was.

"You idiot! What were you thinking, challenging a Klingon to a duel?!"

Malcolm would have shrugged, but it didn't seem worth the pain. "It seemed like the most expedient solution at the time."

"I am sure T'Pol would have found another way!"

Probably. But T'Pol had been busy.

"I survived."

"Barely," Jon said heavily. "For God's sake, Malcolm, you had a foot of metal run through your heart."

At this point, Malcolm was sorely tempted to make a bad joke, but the depth of feeling in Jon's expression kept him from it.

"You worry too much." _That's usually my department._

Jon hugged him. It was incredibly awkward, and it felt wonderful.

"Promise me you won't do something like that again." Jon murmured into his hair.

Malcolm would do no such thing. But he held on tight. "I love you," he said, closing his eyes.

"I know."

 

* * *

 

After that, things changed. Not abruptly or with any great announcement, but gradually. Jon stayed with him for most of the three days he had to spend at Medical after waking up. Malcolm had no idea how he managed it, but he suspected that by now, their relationship looked like more than a friendship even to outsiders. Jon didn't seem to mind.

It was _odd._

Jon accompanied him back to his newly assigned quarters - Malcolm had been put on extended sick leave, somewhat unfairly, if you asked him.

"It's time for you to have your own ship, anyway. They're stalling, waiting for the two ships currently being assembled in spacedock to be completed, I'm telling you."

"I doubt T'Pol would be happy about that."

"She recommended you for promotion."

News to him, but if it was true, he was grateful.

"Dinner tonight? After all that hospital food?"

"Please."

Jon grinned at him. "Great. Seven PM. Dress up."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows at his retreating back, wondering what he had missed, but he did put on dress pants and a nice shirt. Jon's pleased look when he returned seemed worth it.

As for him... "Why do you have to look that good in everything you wear? It's not fair."

"Right back at you." Jon took his arm in what _could_ have been a casual gesture, helping an injured friend.

The restaurant was in a glass-walled winter garden, with palm trees stretching up to the roof, bird of paradise flowers in pots and actual butterflies fluttering around. A stark contrast from life and dinner aboard a starship.

Malcolm nipped at his fruit-cocktail (alcohol seemed like a bad idea, given that he was still recovering.)

The suspense was killing him.

"Is this a date?"

Jon pushed his appetizer around on the plate. "It could be... in a parallel universe." One where one of us is female, or both of us are gay? Malcolm wondered.

On the other hand, they had been dancing around each other long enough... "Let's make it one in this one."

A moment of silence. Malcolm held his breath. The scraping of Jon's fork as he set it down was suddenly unbearably loud.

"...alright."

Malcolm stared at him. "Are you serious?" He had expected Jon to take it as a joke, or at the very least to express a polite, regretful refusal.

Jon's expression was almost defiant. "Why not? People way less compatible have somehow managed successful relationships. And it seems like such a waste."

"Well, there _is_ the pesky issue of my being gay and your lack of interest in men..." _Just saying. It seems worth mentioning._

"I don't care anymore. I want that heart you just let a Klingon mutilate, no matter what it's wrapped in."

He really had a way with words.

Malcolm put down his glass and reached his hands across the table, grasping Jon's. "This is going to be a disaster," he predicted.

"I can't wait."

 

* * *

 

Malcolm was right, of course, even though in this one instance he would have preferred to be wrong. It _was_ a disaster. Surprisingly, Starfleet proved to be an even bigger hindrance than all the unresolved sexual tension floating around (okay, admittedly, that was mostly on Malcolm's part, Jon seemed perfectly content).

A week after their - very memorable, if terribly awkward - first kiss, Malcolm got his own command, complete with orders that sent him right back into the Delta Quadrant. A month later, Jon's team of engineers finally pronounced their shiny new engine ripe and ready for serial production, which prompted several people in high places to suggest that Jon should stop stalling and pursue the diplomatic career he seemed destined for.

"Federation Ambassador to Andoria."

"Of course." Malcolm shook his head, laughing. "You'll have Shran to thank for that.

He watched Jon uneasily shift his weight from one foot to the other. "So..."

Malcolm watched him, fondness warring with exasperation and regret. "Jon, you didn't seriously expect this to turn into some sort of happily ever after, did you?"

A wry smile. "A man can dream."

Yes, Malcolm thought, and you always were a dreamer. They never managed to scare, train, or beat that out of you. No matter what the universe threw at you, somehow you always bounced back to that incredible, childishly optimistic enthusiasm.

He raised a hand and stroked the side of Jon's face, from the hairline down to the edge of his chin. Jon's gaze was locked with his.

"Ours is not that sort of story. You need to go and fulfill your destiny, and I have no doubt  that sooner or later, they'll make you run this Federation you helped to set up."

"And you?"

Malcolm smiled and patted his chest with the other hand. "I promise not to let anybody else run lethal weapons through my heart. After all, it's yours."

Jon nodded.

And Malcolm fully expected that to be the end of their romantic relationship (if you could call it that).

He should have known better, Jon was nothing if not tenacious. The little Beagle that followed him around everywhere - Porthos III by this point - couldn't have been more persistent with a stolen shoe, never mind the danger of choking or the reprimands of said shoe's owner.

Somehow, no matter where Malcolm's travels took him, Jon managed to keep a line of communication open. Malcolm suspected that Hoshi was offering some clandestine help with that, although she denied any knowledge of the matter when he asked her.

And whenever the Federation's Ambassador to Andoria needed to travel to some conference or negotiate a trade agreement, peace deal, or ceasefire, it was always the _USS Atlantic_ that had to transport him there. Jon would come aboard, all smiles and disarming charm, and the crew adored him, of course, he was their hero. Malcolm would grumble that he hadn't joined Starfleet to shuttle diplomats around, and Jon would play along graciously, until they were alone and he used that one smile, the one that seemed to be especially reserved for Malcolm, to wipe all the gruffness away.

"And what have you been up to?" Jon asked conversationally, while Malcolm pretended not to be completely besotted. (Quite unsuccessfully, probably.)

"The usual. And you read my reports."

Mock frown. "I do, and they're boring."

Malcolm shrugged. "Life out here isn't all that exciting... and I remember somebody telling me to play it safe."

"Please do." Jon stepped closer, into Malcolm's personal space. "Well, if you're so bored, it seems to be up to me to entertain you."

Sex was the one obstacle their unusual relationship had not been able to circumnavigate, eliminate or take on. Try as you might, there was no getting around the fact that they were ill-suited in that respect. Jon had a clear preference for women, and while he didn't mind kissing and touching Malcolm, there were lines he could not cross. (Not for lack of trying, Jon took the spirit of exploration to the bedroom as well.)

Over time, they had found their ways to enjoy intimacy without actually going all the way.

Was it enough? It had to be.

And early on, Malcolm had given a puzzled Jon blanket permission to look to his own physical needs.

"It's just sex."

Jon looked dubious. "It feels wrong."

"I trust you. Just make it clear to whoever you are with that they only get your body. Everything else is mine."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "Something tells me that you have some experience with that sort of arrangement."

Malcolm shrugged. "It's expedient. At the Academy and in my early years as an officer, I didn't have the time or energy to invest much in a long-term relationship. And later, on _Enterprise_... well, a certain Captain caught my eye, and you know how that story ends."

"Right here," Jon said fondly, kissing him briefly.

"Right."

"I always thought there was something going on between you and Major Hayes, though."

"It was purely physical. A way to relieve tension. We would have been perfectly content to have a good fistfight every once in a while, but you had made clear that that was not going to happen aboard your ship, so we... compensated. It was a satisfactory arrangement for all parties involved."

"Only you could make an intimate act sound so clinical," Jon complained, pulling a face.

Well, luckily for us, I don't have your sensitivities when it comes to that, Malcolm thought.

"Malcolm?" Jon asked. "This goes both ways."

"Sure."

Like hell.

 

* * *

 

 

It was 2176, and Jon had left Andoria after six years as ambassador, to become Federation Councilor. It seemed a logical progression, and he got to watch his vision slowly unfold and take shape from a privileged position.

"It is incredible," he told Malcolm. "Who would have thought, a hundred years ago, fifty years ago, twenty years ago, that we would be here today?"

They were strolling leisurely across the vast campus of the newly opened UFP campus in San Francisco. Construction had taken the better part of a decade, but now everything was in place, and the various buildings were already bustling with activity.

"It's your work," Malcolm said quietly. "Your dream."

"I was only a very small part of it."

"Not true. You're too modest, as always."

Jon took his hand. "Well, luckily I have you to compliment me. Compliment and complement."

"Always," Malcolm said.

Jon stopped underneath a large tree. (Cherry? Or apple? Or something more exotic? It was covered in white flowers with a rosy tint.)

"I've been thinking."

"Never a good sign."

"Stop teasing, I'm trying to be serious, and I have to tell you something." He sounded affronted.

Malcolm smiled.

"This _arrangement_ of ours..." Jon began.

Which one of them, exactly, Malcolm wondered? Nevertheless, a faint feeling of anxiety began to build up inside his chest. Was this it? Had Jon met somebody, some foreign dignitary or gorgeous scientist, or an old flame that he had really never gotten over?

"It's not ideal."

Malcolm huffed. "No, of course not."

"What I mean to say is, I can't keep doing this. I cannot keep seeing other people, when looking at them, I invariably think of you. It feels wrong.

So I won't do that anymore. I just wanted you to know."

Malcolm was stunned.

"That doesn't mean you have to," Jon added hurriedly. "This is just me."

And that almost made him laugh.

"No Jon," he said slowly, "it's not. Because for me, there has never been anyone but you."

Now it was Jon's turn to stare at him. "... never?" he asked in a small voice.

Malcolm put a hand on his arm. "No. We're a right pair of idiots, aren't we? Sex should be easy, and we can't even get that right."

And Jon kissed him, underneath that tree, whatever sort of tree it was, and Malcolm knew that in the end, all those obstacles and trials and errors did not matter.

 

* * *

 

"We cannot keep meeting like this," Jon told Malcolm, coming to sit by his beside in sickbay. "I swear, I suffer a minor heart attack every time I get a message about you being shot, stabbed, kidnapped or trapped under a collapsing structure. My doctor says I'm being melodramatic, but screw her."

"I really hope you didn't," Malcolm said in a weak attempt at humor.

"No, of course not." Jon shook his head. "But do you know what a hassle it was to explain to everybody why I was leaving in the midst of council season to mount a rescue mission? Captain Della Vecchia was polite about it, but I got the distinct feeling that she took my presence aboard her ship as criticism of her abilities. I couldn't explain to her that there was no way for me to stay in San Francisco with you being held hostage." He paused. "Don't do that again."

"What? Getting kidnapped? Funny, that used to be my line when we were still on _Enterprise_..."

"I think," Jon said, going off on a tangent of his own, "I think we should get married."

"You - what?" Malcolm tried to sit up, but the pain that instantly shot through his body reminded him of too many broken bones and torn ligaments. "Ow."

"Don't," Jon bent forward and gently pushed him back into the pillows.

"You can't spring something like that on me while I'm essentially immobilized," Malcolm complained. "It's not fair. And where did that idea come from, anyway?"

The smile crept onto Jon's face, like the sun emerging from a curtain of clouds.

"Is that a yes?"

"You haven't actually asked a question," Malcolm pointed out.

 

* * *

 

It didn't happen often these days, but in 2192, Jon managed to surprise him.

"I'm stepping down. Eight years is enough, it's time to make room for the next generation, for all those bright young people with their clever schemes and grand plans." Jon smiled wistfully. "I've watched many of them grow into their roles as leaders, and their time has come."

Malcolm was a bit surprised, because it was obvious that Jon loved his job, but the argument was a sensible one.

"Don't look so shocked." Jon teased.

"I'm not. I just never thought you would retire. It seemed... far off, somehow. If not impossible."

Jon chuckled. "I'm eighty years old, Malcolm. I'm not immortal."

"Could have fooled me," Malcolm murmured. "So, what will you do now?"

Jon shrugged. "Travel. Visit some old friends. Maybe teach that seminar on interspecies negotiations that the Dean of the Free University of Andoria has been pestering me about. Take care of some loose ends here and there."

It was a spur of the moment decision, but somehow, it surprised neither of them. "Care for some company?"

The light in Jon's eyes when he smiled was worth facing the wrath of the Admiralty when Malcolm turned down command of Starfleet's first deep space station and asked for extended personal leave.

"Exactly what does 'extended' mean, Captain Reed?"

"Indefinite."

Somebody made a choked sound, and at least two of the assembled admirals looked like goldfish out of the water.

Jon laughed. "He'll be back when he gets bored. And I promise to take good care of him."

Malcolm shot him a _look_ , because that wording was a bit... well, suggestive.

Jon winked at him.

You'll be the death of me.

But he wouldn't have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been re-watching Enterprise lately, and revisiting some of my favorite pairings. This story wanted to be told. It loosely ties in with the Singularities verse, as a sort of backstory to the Archer/Reed dynamic shown in some of the stories, but it can be read alone.


End file.
